


Family Dinner

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: (self-administered), Belly Rubs, Family Dinners, Gen, Stomach Ache, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 10:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17222267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: Morse finally joins the Thursdays for a full meal and eats more than he intended.





	Family Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite things about Endeavour is that literally everybody is on the same wavelength that Morse needs to be fed up. And, well, I'm a self-indulgent writer, and so this is the first of an intended series about Morse being fed a lot of food. And, y'know, exploring his dynamics with different other characters.
> 
> The reason it's a series is because I wrote like, half a dozen summaries one night while half asleep, and I'm intending to flesh them out, aha.
> 
> This one is dedicated to fifteen year old me who had never seen Endeavour but sure would go for this fic.

It takes three failed attempts before Morse finishes dinner at the Thursday’s; police business and his own awkwardness have him murmuring apologies not ten minutes in. But his DI's family is nothing if not determined, and on the fourth go the phone stays silent and Morse stays in his seat.

“Go on, then,” Mrs. Thursday says, pressing a plate into his hand. “Eat as much as you like. I’ve made more than enough, don’t you worry.”

Morse flashes her a tight smile. His eyes glance over meatloaf, potatoes, carrots, bread; a real dinner, unlike anything he'd fix for himself. He's not hungry, or maybe he's perpetually hungry, but it evens out to the same thing, really. He'll indulge the Thursdays—and himself—tonight, and that will be the end of it.

A flush creeps up his cheeks. He doesn't know where to start.

DI Thursday notices his hesitation and passes the meatloaf for Morse to serve himself. “Last case took a lot out of you,” he says, offering a line of reasoning for Morse to use if he wants to. Morse nods. Thursday's not wrong; the entire week Morse's bones have been heavy with the dull weight of exhaustion that might never lift.

Two slices of meatloaf make it to his plate while Miss Thursday captures everyone's attention with a story about a mishap at the bank. The sides and the bread come his way, too, until he's got a rather lavish meal before him.

“It’s good,” he says through a mouthful of potatoes. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Thursday beams as though he’d said what he can’t articulate: _I can’t remember the last time I ate something this good, I can’t believe you’d share this with me, this is so much and I want so much more._

As he eats, his face remains flushed, his shoulders relax, even his hands, normally cold to the touch, feel warm. Surely it's only a body's natural reaction to a hot meal. But the fact is that nothing since, perhaps, a very few companionable potlucks from his Oxford days has left him wanting to stay at the table, or even believing he might belong there.

He wants to stay.

“How are you keeping yourself, Morse?” Win asks, during the next lull.

“I’m fine.” He cuts the answer short with a piece of bread.

“I’m sure work’s keeping you busy enough, and I won’t ask about it,” she waves a hand at Fred who seems ready to protest. “But you must have some sort of hobbies to keep you occupied.”

Fred coughs anyway. “Win, don’t interrogate the boy.”

Morse ducks his head. “Music,” he says. “Records and… so forth. Opera, mostly.” He almost mentions that he sings, that he’s in a choir. Almost.

“It’s like you’re even older than Dad,” Sam jokes, and Miss Thursday laughs, and Morse grabs another piece of bread and offers an obliging smile as Thursday grumbles fondly.

Thursday ropes him into every conversation that comes up, from local politics (which Morse has little to add) to literature (which he has much). Sam and Miss Thursday give him some good-natured ribbing no matter what he answers, but they rib their parents too, and after a few goes Morse picks up and joins in on the rhythm of their banter.

Throughout all of it, he eats.

He eats right up to his limit in an attempt to chase the elusive feeling filling the room. Miss Thursday offers seconds and Mrs. Thursday thirds, and he accepts, as though loading up on awkward laughter and buttery potatoes can replace every disappointing dinner he's ever had. Ignored is every nagging memory of his own chilly household and silent meals. It won't be long until he's hungry and cold again, but maybe each bite of bread will keep the warmth with him a little longer.

Amazingly, no one comments on how much he puts away, other than to offer him more. Sam, perhaps, raises a disbelieving eyebrow, but it’s nothing anyone could prove.

Between the five of them, the meal vanishes entirely.

By the time Win clears the plates away, Morse is heavy and full. As Thursday questions Sam about school, Morse rubs the side of his stomach absently, marveling at how good it feels to have food taking up what seems like every empty space inside of him.

He would be content to sit here the rest of the evening, sated and warm and surrounded by cheer.

It’s puzzling, then, when Win returns with a warm pie and begins cutting large slices. Surely no one needs dessert after a meal like that, though the rest of the family's delighted faces would suggest otherwise.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Thursday. Really, I'm fine," he says when she presses a slice on him. More food would push him past the haze of comfort and he’s not sure he’s ready for whatever’s on the other side. He takes a deep breath, experimentally, and his stomach twinges.  
  
Mrs. Thursday only shakes her head. "You're a guest, it's only right," she says, as though he's refusing, as usual, out of politeness or guilt, rather than because of the pressure in his belly. Even so, the pie is so gorgeous it's tempting. "You're too thin as it is," she argues.

Although Morse feels heavier in that moment then he has in his entire life, he obliges her and cuts into the pie. This, too, is buttery and sweet, and tart cherries burst on his tongue. He's halfway through the slice before he remembers how full he is.

 _Can’t stop now,_ he thinks, and pushes through to the end.

When he finally sets down his fork, he is is not just full but packed tight. His stomach aches when he breathes, and throbs when he takes a last swallow of tea to wash down the pie.

Morse still feels warm and cared for, but now it’s with the slightly ill sense that he may have overstayed his welcome. His stomach gurgles loudly and he blushes, though between Sam and Miss Thursday's chatter he may have been the only one who heard. He shifts in his seat, trying to gauge his condition. His stomach throbs in response.

Returning to his flat will be an ordeal.

Stuffed and sleepy as he is, it’s not long until someone catches on that he looks unwell. It’s impossible to tell who because suddenly they're all talking about him at once. The phrases "tummy ache" and "exhausted" and “your cooking’s done him in,” and "run ragged," fly by in quick succession, and he can't open his mouth quickly enough to deny any of them.

“Please, stay the night,” Mrs. Thursday says. “We can set you up on the sofa, it’s no trouble.”

“Oh, no." Morse can't possibly accept, especially not when the cause for the invitation is his own lack of control. "I ought to—” he stands to leave, but his stomach lurches. He winces and presses a hand to the table to steady himself, turning even pinker than before. "I'm fine," he insists.

Miss Thursday grabs his arm. “We won’t take no for an answer,” she announces, and leads him, slowly, into the sitting room. His protests have to fight for attention with the effects of his massive dinner, and he can’t manage to be very convincing. On the way, she whispers into his ear. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m sure Mum’s flattered.”

He is embarrassed, but for her sake he tries to deny it. “I just need some sleep,” he tells her. And he does— he’s exhausted. Hasn’t been sleeping well for weeks. Thursday’s even started commenting, though Morse does his best to hide it.

Still, Miss Thursday gives him a knowing smile and deposits him on the sofa. His stomach cramps as he sits down, and he hisses softly through his teeth. “Well, then there’s no way Mum’s letting you drive home,” she says. She’s out of the room before he can argue.

As much as he hates to admit it, there’s nothing he’d like more than to stay, to stretch out and sleep this meal off. It's more often that Morse is hungry than full, and during those times he prefers to surround himself with work, or to play opera until he is so lost in the music he forgets that he has a physical body. Now it's the opposite. He craves solitude and quiet, the opportunity to free his belly from the suddenly oppressive confines of his belt and run his hands over the taut flesh, take in every sensation, memorize it for the inevitability of being hungry later.

So, when Mrs. Thursday returns with blankets and pillows and all but pushes him horizontal, he accepts. His overfull gut settles in the new position, still grumbling and twinging in pain.

“Sleep well, Morse,” Win says.

Morse nods, smiles, lost for words. Then he closes his eyes and feigns sleep until the lights go off, and the Thursdays creak up to bed, and it seems unlikely that anyone will walk in on him.

Finally, under the blanket Win draped around his shoulders, he unbuckles his belt and undoes his trousers. The relief is immediate. He’ll have to remember to let his belt out the next time he stays for dinner.

( _If,_ he reminds himself, despite all evidence to the contrary. _If_ he’s invited again.)

Still covered by the blanket, Morse surreptitiously rubs at his stomach. His hands are clumsy and uncertain, but cool on the tight, hot skin of his belly. He draws a line down his side with one finger, then two. He splays his palm across the lower swell of his stomach and winces. The whole area is tender to the touch.

He ghosts his fingers across his stomach, past his navel, noting the gentle crest of new topography. Resting his palm on the skin just under his ribs accentuates the pressure there, which swells and ebbs with his shallow breaths. If he presses too hard, he thinks he might be sick, but rubbing gently feels almost good.

The house creaks as it settles, and he freezes, eyes closed, hand still. It's surely not one of the Thursdays, but he refuses to move until he's certain. This doesn't feel like something any of them should see.

His heart beats and his stomach growls, heedless of his attempts to quiet it. The mass of food churns under his palm, as loud as a car engine, it seems.

No one notices, and no one comes to check in on him.

At last, Morse lets out a breath and resumes his ministrations. This time he is not exploring so much as trying to soothe the pervasive ache of overindulgence. His belly is so swollen, but gentle rubbing just above his navel seems to help. His other hand presses small circles into his firm flesh, which surprisingly leads to a few quiet belches.

There’s an aria going through his head and, half aware, he matches his hands to the melody, matches his pressure to the crescendoes and decrescendos, and he aches suddenly to have the record playing, to experience the piece with as many senses as possible.

He makes do with a barely audible hum through pursed lips, and closed eyes that allow him to sink into his memory.

He does not return to the same sated feeling he’d achieved right before the pie came out, though he gets close. The ache becomes a sensitive but gentle pressure that pins him to the couch. He’s vulnerable here, unable to spring to his feet should the need arise, but the warmth of the house and the weight of the blanket make up for that somewhat.

The morning will be awkward and tomorrow night he will go to sleep (or he won’t) with only the memory of this feeling. He doesn’t need more. He doesn’t. And even here, even now, he can't put into words what it is he wants. Still. For now the night passes slowly, and his his eyelids grow heavy. His exhaustion and his own gentle touches finally lull him into a deep, solid sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought. 
> 
> I can also be found on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, and twitter and dreamwidth as dwarvenbeardspores.


End file.
